"Sir," replied that gallant officer, who had listened to this ditty in purple and petrified astonishment, "I don't know who the devil you are, but I can tell you, you won't remain a member of this club much longer if you come into it again in this state."

"I had forgotten," said Mr Bunker, with even more than his usual politeness, "that such an admirable music-hall critic was listening to me.

I must apologise for my poor effort."

Wishing him courteously good-night, he took the Baron by the arm and walked out. While that somewhat perplexed n.o.bleman was struggling into his coat, his friend rapidly and dexterously converted all the silk hats he could see into the condition of collapsed opera hats, and then picked a small hand-bag off the floor. The Baron walked out through the door first, but Mr Bunker stopped for an instant opposite the hall-porter's box, and crying, "Good night to you, sir!" hurled the bag through the gla.s.s, rushed after his friend, and in less time than it takes to tell they were tearing up Pall Mall in a hansom.

For a few minutes both were silent; then the Baron said slowly, "I do not qvite onderstand."

"My dear Baron," his friend explained gaily, "these practical jokes are very common in our clubs. They are quite part of our national life, you know, and I thought you ought to see everything."

The Baron said nothing, but he began to realise that he was indeed in a foreign country.

CHAPTER III.

"Vell, Bonker, vat show to-day?" said the Baron.

Mr Bunker sipped his coffee and smiled back at his friend.

"What would you like?" said he.

They were sitting in the Baron's private room finishing one of the renowned Hotel Mayonaise breakfasts. Out of the windows they could see the bright curving river, the bare tops of the Embankment trees, a file of barges drifting with the tide, and cold-looking clouds hurrying over the chaos of brick on the opposite sh.o.r.e. It was a bright breezy morning, and the Baron felt in high good-humour with his surroundings. On maturer consideration, the entertaining experience of the night before had greatly raised Mr Bunker in his estimation. He had chuckled his way through a substantial breakfast, and in such good company felt ready for any adventure that might turn up.

He lit a cigar, pushed back his chair, and replied blandly, "I am in your hands. I am ready to enjoy anyzing."

"Do you wish instruction or entertainment?"

"Mix zem, Bonker. Entertain by instrogtion; instrogt by entertaining."

"You are epigrammatic, Baron, but devilish vague. I presume, however, that you wish entertaining experience from which a man of your philosophical temperament can draw a moral-afterwards."

"Ha, ha!" laughed the Baron. "Excellent! You provide ze experiences-I draw ze moral."

"And we share the entertainment. The theory is perfect, but I'm afraid we need a programme. Now, on my own first visit to London I remember being taken-by the hand-to Madame Tussaud's Waxworks, the Tower, St Paul's Cathedral, the fishmarket at Billingsgate, the British Museum, and a number of other d.a.m.nably edifying spectacles. You might naturally suppose that after such a round it would be quite superfluous for me ever to come up to town again. Yet, surprising as it may appear, most of the knowledge of London I hope to put at your disposal has been gained in the course of subsequent visits."

"Bot zese places-Tousaud, Tower, Paul's-are zey not instrogtif?"

"If you wish to learn that a great number of years ago a vast quant.i.ty of inconsequent events occurred, or that in an otherwise amusing enough world there are here and there collected so many roomfuls of cheerless articles, I can strongly recommend a visit to the Tower of London or the British Museum."

"In mine own gontry," said the Baron, thoughtfully, "I can lairn zo moch."

"Then, my dear Baron, while you are here forget it all."

"And yet," said the Baron, still thoughtfully, "somzing I should lairn here."

"Certainly; you will learn something of what goes on underneath a waistcoat and a little of the contents of a corset and petticoat. Also of the strange customs of this city and the excellence of British inst.i.tutions."

"Ha, ha, ha!" laughed the Baron, who thought that if his friend had not actually made a jest, it was at least time for one to occur. "I see, I see. I draw ze moral, ha, ha!"

"This morning," Mr Bunker continued, reflectively, "we might-let me see-well, we might do a little shopping. To tell you the truth, Baron, my South African experiences have somewhat exhausted my wardrobe."

"Ach, zo. Cairtainly ve vill shop. Bot, Bonker, Soud Africa? Vas it not Soud America?"

"Did I say Africa? America of course I meant. Well, let us shop if you have no objections: then we might have a little lunch, and afterwards visit the Park. For the evening, what do you say to a theatre?"

"Goot!" cried the Baron. "Make it tzos."

Mr Bunker's shopping turned out to be a pretty extensive operation.

"Loan vat you please of money," said his friend. "A gentleman should be dressed in agreement."

With now and then an apology for his extravagance, he took full advantage of the Baron's generosity, and ordered such an a.s.sortment of garments that his tailor could hardly bow low enough to express his gratification.

After an excellent lunch in the most expensive restaurant to be found, they walked arm-in-arm westwards along Piccadilly, Mr Bunker pointing out the various objects of historical or ephemeral interest to be seen in that thoroughfare, the Baron drinking in this information with the serious air of the distinguished traveller.

"And now we come to the Park," said Mr Bunker. "Guard your heart, Baron."

"Ha, ha, ha!" replied the Baron. "Zo instrogtion is feenished, and now goms entertainment, ha?"

"With the moral always running through it, remember."

"I shall not forget."

The sunshine had brought out a great many carriages and a sprinkling of walkers along the railings. The two friends strolled among them, eyeing the women and stopping now and then to look back at a carriage.

"I suppose," said the Baron, "zat vile you haf been avay your frients have forgot you."

As he spoke a young man looked hard at Mr Bunker, and even made a movement as though he would stop and speak to him. Mr Bunker looked blandly through him and walked on.

"Do you not know zat gentleman?"

"Which gentleman?"

"Ze young man zat looked so at you."

"Some young men have a way of staring here, Baron."

A few minutes later a lady in a pa.s.sing carriage looked round sharply at them with an air of great surprise, and half bowed.

"Surely," exclaimed the Baron, "zat vas a frient of yours!"

"I am not a friend of hers, then," Mr Bunker replied with a laugh. "Her bow I think must have been aimed at you."

The Baron shook his head, and seemed to be drawing a moral.

"Baron," his friend exclaimed, suddenly, "let us go back; here comes one of our most popular phenomena, a London fog. We need not stay in the Park to observe it."